We Met on the Street
by Femme27
Summary: AU that begins before the Jacobs meet the Fosters. Instead of beating her foster father's car with a baseball bat and being shipped to Juvie, Callie connects with a local gang for protection. How will the siblings find their way into the Fosters' home? Can Stef and Lena fix them? Will they ever be truly safe? Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

"Back the hell off my brother, Damien. We've been through this before." Callie shoved the young man roughly aside, pushing her way into the shared bathroom and readjusting the red bandana wrapped around her brown hair.

Jude was perched mutely on the makeshift bed, really just a musty pile of blankets covering the cold concrete, picking at the blue polish on his fingers while enigmatically absorbing the argument caused by his existence.

"Damn, girl, I just be sayin'—I was cookin' at his age. What are you, little freak, like 11 now?" The adolescent turned on his heel and stared at Jude, who stared blankly back, as indecipherable as he had been yesterday, and the month before, and the year prior to that.

"It's unnerving, Cal. It's bad enough that the kid don't speak, but dude's gotta start pullin' his own weight. I be tryin' to have your back. I heard em choppin' it up, what to do with him. They be stayin' up whisperin' the last few nights. Pretty soon, you not gonna be callin' the shots no more, no matter how good you run them streets. It's been two years. We ain't got no surplus to be feedin'… feedin'… what do you call them things that stick to whales?"

"Barnacles?" Callie rolled her eyes into the cracked mirror that was propped up on an inoperable sink, the expression multiplying before vanishing; Damien's face, scrunched up in comical concentration, peered back at her through the looking glass. She swallowed hard, trying to repress the fear that had crawled its way up her throat like nausea. "You should have stayed in school."

Whipping the towel off its rack with rapid speed, Callie spun and lashed out at the shirtless teen, playfully pelting his skin with the damp rag in an effort to ease her nerves, to deny the inevitable recognition of his words. She needed a plan, and fast.

"Yeah, well, maybe you should have too." Damien caught the weapon in his open palm, yanking it gently away from Callie. He nudged his head in Jude's direction, adding, "You and dat boy both" to the statement before sauntering away, leaving her in sudden, oppressive silence.

The leaning walls of their refuge, really just an abandoned home in a neglected neighborhood of San Ysidro, pressed heavily against her heart, and she couldn't remember having ever felt so alone.

Hours later, after the sun had gone down and so had her brother, Callie made her way through the crowded kitchen, brushing at the thick smoke that rose and gathered like storm clouds from the glass tubes and connected piping littered across the plastic table.

She scanned the room for Marco's tanned face, searching for the row of tattooed tears that dropped from his eye to his cheek, making him shine brighter in veiled light. She slid beside him as he counted the cash, lurking in the shadows to avoid disruption, holding her gaze haughty and off of the floor. She couldn't slip now.

"Yo, bro," a voice cut through the hum of activity in the room, "I think BG Bitch be waiting for ya. Think she wants some of your _attention_." Hoots and hollers echoed the pronouncement, and Callie fought the reddening of her cheeks.

"You can shut your fucking mouth, Joe, or I can shut it for you." She threatened the shadows now, stepping out of obscurity and lowering the register of her voice as she dropped to her knees before Marco; she spoke quickly, hoping to avoid the onslaught of Joe's verbal retaliation. "I need to talk to you," she widened her eyes and placed a hand on his denim-clad thigh, "please."

As she followed him out the back door and into the cloudless night, only one thought was clear in her mind: _She would never let Jude work in that kitchen._


	2. Chapter 2

It was always amazing to Callie, the beauty found in darkness, like the stars that hung as picture frames over her bed in the grass. She hadn't moved for hours. Every time that she attempted to lift her limbs, to push herself upright, her muscles screamed in protest. Her left eye was throbbing, sure to rise in purple and blue with the morning light.

She remembered what she had promised, what deal she had made. It was hard to believe that she had loved Marco once, had thought that he could commander all of her and Jude's dreams, bring them to the moon on a rocket ship. She had wished on a star for liberation from the system, and now here she was, alone with what she had desired— imprisoned by her own foolish hopes.

Everything had shifted when Jude stopped speaking. He had swallowed his voice the evening he lost his innocence, the night he trailed the crew down the block, around the corner and into the alleyway. Her legs had worked then. She had watched them kick furiously, over and over again, seemingly unrelated to her torso, moving of their own accord. She saw them connect with the flesh of the crumpled boy's neck, fall on his ribs and the arms held over his face. She spotted Damien's encouraging smile across the swarming circle, watched Joe spark his cigarette and laugh. She sought Marco's teardrop eyes, his red lips stretched in a sneer, matching the stain on the asphalt, spreading below the body beneath their feet.

When she caught Jude's silhouette under the streetlight, disbelief dancing across his features, mouth choking on a silent scream, she knew that she had gone too far, had crossed the metaphorical line in the sand of their salvation.

She spent hours, days, weeks, months, justifying her actions, making promises that she couldn't keep, kissing his cheeks with a comfort that she could no longer provide, but her brother had never come back to her. Her soul had dissolved with his will to engage, but she protected the shell of his spirit with abandon. In their waking moments, she denied the psychological departure; maintaining animated conversation as though he might answer her at any moment, giggle at her jokes, lean against her with love.

Darkness didn't allow for such self-depreciating lies.

She had bought him one week. Seven days of comparative security, and then even she could no longer protect him.

He'd be the perfect cook Marco pledged; his nimble fingers and vacant countenance sealed the resume. Never mind that Joe had exploded the kitchen of their last home, causing them all to flee like rats sensing a hurricane, single-file onto the deserted streets. Only Tia hadn't made it out in time, her life curling above them in a plume of angry smoke, clogging their throats and burning their eyes. She made them weep involuntarily, and they made her disappear with a lack of acknowledgement.

"Let's go," Marco directed, and they had all followed, leaving Callie to ponder the import of her own survival. But he had shielded her then, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and hooking his finger through the loop of her jeans until she felt rooted to his side, like an indispensible part of him.

They sprawled out on the beach that night, Jude curled close enough to touch, a continent away. The stars had lulled her to sleep then too. The image of Marco beaming down at her was printed on the back of her eyes, and it looked as though he were crying over her slumbering frame, over the things that were to come.

She had one week to make it right.


	3. Chapter 3

The following day found Callie back on the streets with Damien, who hadn't said a word about the ugly bruises that mottled her body and masked her expression. She was on surveillance. Neither one admitted that her appearance would probably drive away the customers, just like neither one could afford to arrive home empty-handed.

When the moon was the only light left in the sky, they walked the curb in companionable peace, heading to the corner shop like they did every evening. Callie dropped her quarters in the plastic jar, smiling at the elderly man behind the counter, who deposited an anime book into her open arms without request. This too was custom. They waited for the lecture that they knew was coming, for the sermon that the hardened pair would only stand to hear from this disgruntled gentleman, this man whom they had come to privately love.

Sometimes he slipped GED pamphlets into the magazines she bought for Jude, but most of the time he was more obvious.

She must have forgotten the state of her features, because the pregnant stare that answered her smile was paralyzing. His knobby fingers grasped her chin softly, examining the swollen lid of her eye, but it was his voice that knocked the wind out of her.

"Are you ready to get out yet, sweetheart?"

It only took a moment for Callie to regain her balance, to shove his hands away from the parts of her that still felt alive, to close the door on his message.

Damien grabbed the novel she had left behind in her hurry, wagging it in the face of their friend with threatening authority. "Back off, Gramps."

She was almost a full block ahead of him before Damien caught up, tossing the comic and slowing to a walk alongside her. They traveled a mile in silence before he spoke.

"Cal, there's somethin' else I didn't tell you, somethin' I overheard. Maybe old man got a point."

She turned to confront him now, saw the earnestness skate on his childish face, contrasting with the ink that snaked around the skin of his arms, wove its way across his chest and marked him as one of their own, forever.

"What makes you think that I can leave any more than you can?" Her tongue was bitterly flippant, but her heart begged him for an honest answer, for a key out of their shared confinement.

"Marco told Joe he about done with Crystal. Say he can only sell a gram once, but he can sell _you_ over and over again. Shits changin', Cal. I ain't gonna pretend it'll be OK this time."

When their eyes met, it was Tia's ghost that danced in the reflection. Callie knew that Damien would never forgive himself for his girlfriend's death, or for what had led up to it.

There was nothing to say. Even their sadness was routine.

She had only six days now, and a promise to follow through on tomorrow.

**A/N: Hi everyone! So I made a few changes to the first two chapters, hopefully improvements, and I'm excited about where this story is taking me. I'm really enjoying playing with a different spin on the characters, but, don't worry, they are going to find their way to the Fosters soon! Thank you so much for reading- if you have a moment, will you leave me some feedback? Even if you don't like the story, could you tell me why? I am really trying to push myself out of my comfort zone as a writer! Thanks again! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Stef closed her cell and plopped down at the kitchen table with a heavy sigh, tapping her fingers aimlessly over the wood grain with one hand and unbuttoning the collar of her uniform with the other. She couldn't remember the last time that she had spoken to Edward, and to hear from him now, after all of these years; his sober request had thrown her for a loop. Of course, it wasn't surprising, that he had called her instead of his grandson, even though they were both on the force, even though they had been divorced for over a decade. She had fallen fiercely in love with the elderly man the moment that Mike had introduced them. He must be nearing 90 now, and was, apparently, still as stubborn as ever.

Edward Foster had been proudly running his own corner stand on the streets of San Ysidro for over 50 years, and no one could convince the old bat to retire. The boulevard had changed since he launched the moderate business, and he had watched the home he cherished transform into a perilous site with a mixture of defiance and pity. In spite of Mike referring to him as ostentatious, urging his grandfather to leave the neighborhood for his "own goddamn sake," Edward felt that he could make an honest difference in the ravaged community, felt a sincere obligation tug at the strings of his heart with every sunrise. He was the sole sentinel, after all. Those before him had closed their doors when the violence erupted, had rolled away when the rivals staked their turfs and relative security evaporated. He alone had remained, and Stef had always respected him for that.

He had pleaded with her like a determined defense-attorney today, said that there was surely something she could do to support the youngsters who frequented his shop, especially the young woman who had recently turned up beaten beyond recognition. He could sense it like the weather in his knees, he promised, this girl was in serious trouble.

When Stef's phone beeped a moment later, she already knew what she would find. Downloading the image from Edward promptly, she pressed her fingers to her aching temples and wondered what she could possibly tell Lena, how she would even begin to follow through on the promise that she had just made.

A grainy photograph filled her small screen suddenly, and it was the luminous brown eyes that caught her attention first. They pierced through the lens of the camera that was permanently perched on Edward's kiosk, and it was easy to see why the man wanted her to help. The teen in focus looked like a distressed animal, one who was backed into a corner and all the more dangerous because of it. The girl's gaze reminded Stef of the dispirited puppy she had discovered as a child; the dog had fallen and become lodged in an egress window, shattering the bone of its leg in the process. When she bent down in innocence, attempted to lift the creature to safety, it had mauled her with the ferocity of its fear. She had received 17 stitches and an early, unforgettable lesson in assisting victims.

This girl was clad in red, a clear indication of her affiliation, although it appeared as if the clothes on her back might be all that she owned. The colors were worn, and there were small holes along the seams of her shirt. She couldn't be more than 15.

_Just what, exactly, did Edward expect her to accomplish? _

_Why had she agreed? _

Stef was so engrossed in the picture, so rattled by the words that the old man had spoken, that she didn't hear her wife approaching. As Lena's soft curls fell around her face and the scent of vanilla crowded the air, Stef jumped guiltily. Turning swiftly in her seat, she kissed her spouse in greeting.

"Who is that?" Lena questioned, pointing to the portrait in the cop's palm.

"MOMS, JESUS IS BEING MEAN TO ME AGAIN, AND…" Mariana skidded into the sunny kitchen, indignation dancing on her pretty features, "…AND HE FAILED HIS MATH TEST TODAY!"

The 14 year old smirked with unbecoming contempt as her twin trailed into the room behind her, backpack hanging from his extended arm. Swinging it towards his sister with malice, Jesus smiled when the bag struck Mariana's legs and stomach with a satisfying wallop. He wasted no time in retorting, "WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO RAT ON ME? WHY DON'T YOU JUST SHUT UP, FOR ONCE?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Stef interrupted, grateful for the sudden distraction. She was between the children before Mariana could catch her breath or enact revenge.

Lena seized the offending knapsack from Jesus and placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from the altercation and into the living room with one quick motion. As she seated their high-strung son onto the couch with a command to complete his homework, the woman couldn't help but feel a tug of consternation. _Was her wife hiding something? Who was that young woman in the photograph, and why did her heart quicken at the image?_

She made dinner in haste, and, although Stef never faltered, setting the table with ease and programming the coffee for tomorrow, Lena sensed that her partner was elsewhere. They ate in sensible silence, the twins subdued by their previous argument; Stef swirled the fork around her pasta absentmindedly.

When the front door slammed and Brandon's face appeared in the hallway, it was Lena who appreciated the diversion.

"Hi, honey. How was Mike's?" She questioned kindly, patting the seat beside her at the table.

"Hey," the young man smiled in response, kissing each of his mothers' cheeks before settling into the appointed chair. "Dad's good. He's going to take me to my piano audition next week, for the scholarship. What's for dinner?"

"Didn't you just eat?" Stef snapped out of her daze to beam at their eldest child, who was already taking a plate out of the pile and loading it with Alfredo.

"There's always room for Mama's cooking!" Jesus piped up eagerly, impishly grinning like he had as a boy, before he and his sibling were formally adopted; he had been forever trying to wiggle his way out of trouble.

Lena rewarded him with a tender pat on the arm, her expression softening in approval. Mariana rolled her eyes and kicked her foot under the table, smirking at her brown-nosing brother.

"OUCH," Stef hissed in surprise, "_MARIANA_. What was that for?"

Hours later, when the house was finally quiet and all three of their children were slumbering, Stef slipped into bed beside Lena. The brunette closed her book and removed her reading glasses, shifting to face her spouse.

"Edward called," Stef admitted before Lena had the chance to ask. "He needs us to do him a favor…"


	5. Chapter 5

Edward was startled to spot Callie draw near his stand not long after he ended his call, not that he was familiar enough to label her as such; the teen had never revealed her name, or any other identifying characteristic, actually. Before she rounded the corner and came into full view, Edward scribbled a quick note onto his aged legal pad and ripped out the paper, folding and pressing it prudently into the binding of the newest _Superman_. He was thankful that Stef had agreed to assist him, although, deep down, he had always known that she would. She never coddled the old man the way that his own child did, and she had never mocked or condescended the choices that he made, unlike his grandson. It didn't matter to Edward that she left Mike all those years ago, and it didn't matter that she was with Lena now. He loved her like the biological daughter he never had, and Stephanie Adams-Foster would always be family.

He was unsettled, however, by the time of Callie's arrival. He never saw the girl before sundown, and, come to think of it, he had never encountered her alone either. She was always with the lanky brown boy, the one who had rebuked Edward the evening prior. His words hadn't fazed the elderly gentleman, really. Compared to the other hoodlums who he regularly served, the pair was exceedingly tame. Edward suffered only pity for the circumstances that the adolescents had evidently fallen prey to, although he wasn't about to fool himself into believing that they were entirely benign. No one in these neighborhood houses could cast the first stone; that was a divine truth. They were a village made of glass.

He had often wondered what interest the girl took in the juvenile cartoons that she habitually purchased, but it was so endearing to witness someone on these streets attempting edification that he hadn't wished to gamble on embarrassing her.

There was something about today, though, something about the schedule and the apprehensive gait of the teen that raised the red flags of Edward's intuition. This sense, coupled with her solitary presence and Stef's singular vow, still ringing in his ears, encouraged the old man to pursue the issue at once.

As Callie deposited her change robotically, Edward held the superhero comic to his caved chest possessively, seeking the adolescent's gaze by withholding.

"There's a twist in this one." His voice broke through the stillness, "Page 57."

She met his eyes now, but her lips did not part in sociable conversation. _What did he want? _The expectation that she perceived in his penetrating reflection was heavily disquieting. _How dare he demand anything of her? _She was already hollow, had given away every piece of herself that was valuable.

When the sun tickled her cheeks with deceitful cheer on the morning she had dubbed "Promise Day," Callie woke numb at the thought of what awaited her in the evening hours. She had come to Edward's stand early because she might never be able to return, depending on what transpired after nightfall; she might never be able to buy Jude a small token of her affection again. Preoccupied only with these possibilities, Callie had not counted on making small talk. _Why did this irritating old man always rattle her nerves when her guard was down? Why did he even care? Was this some sort of game for him, some sick form of satisfaction and diversion?_

She was too tired to even care anymore. "It's not for me. It's for my brother. He's eleven." She answered impatiently, casting her eyes downward once more and stretching her hands over the counter for the desired object.

Edward held the pages out of her eager grasp a moment longer, skirting the lines of their long-established boundaries. "Which one is his favorite?"

The old man understood that he was pushing his luck with the edgy girl. Palpable tension thickened the air around them both. He actually wasn't sure why he felt the need to know, but more than mere curiosity burned within him nonetheless;_ wasn't motive usually inconsequential in this population, anyway? _

Exasperated and growing angry, Callie tossed her head with a spark of hostility. "I don't know," she snapped. "I'm not even sure if he can read." She stared at Edward with forceful finality now, silently seething, challenging him with the power of her pained expression.

Stunned by the news that he had unwittingly uncovered, Edward submitted the comic softly, lost in the fresh swirl of questions and suspicions that circulated his thoughts. _If the girl was this broken, what must her brother look like? _

Unexpectedly crushed by the weight of the cold cruelty around them, he almost didn't notice that Callie was leaving. "Page 57," he cried meekly behind her retreating figure, although he couldn't be certain that she heard him at all.

When the teen was a few blocks away, she flipped to the spot that Edward had mentioned, barely catching the folded paper as it fluttered out of its fastening. Opening it with caution, as though it might contain Anthrax or surprise confetti, Callie found only a few words scrawled across the yellow lines:

_Stephanie Adams-Foster_

_(645) 555-0452_

Releasing a despondent sigh, she turned the sheet over in her hands, searching for an additional clue, anything that might convey a meaning in the message. When she learned nothing, she felt compelled to tear the paper to shreds in frustration. Throwing it haphazardly into the back pocket of her faded skinny jeans instead, Callie wandered the two miles home. She struggled to put the old man out of her mind with each forward step, to focus on her plans for twilight and for what would happen to Jude in the event that she failed. Dismissively, she reminded herself that there wasn't time to waste on mysterious codes from lonely, misguided old men.

Far away from the screeching tires and the bellowing smoke of Callie's world, however, Stephanie Foster was eating dinner with her family, coiling pasta around her plate and picturing a young girl with haunting amber eyes.

**A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for your kind reviews, follows, and favorites! This is kind of a filler chapter, I know, but I'm really excited for what is coming up. Shit is going to HIT THE FAN. Lol :) Thank you again for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

Callie shoved the ski mask into her backpack and zipped it shut, pivoting to confront Jude once more.

"Do you remember the plan?" She questioned her brother, flooding with relief when he nodded in composed affirmation. "Good." She sat beside him and placed a hand on his knee, although it was hers that was bouncing now. Her eyes darted around the sparse room repeatedly, as though she were trying to memorize the space, to secure the walls in her absence.

"It won't be necessary," she added for his sake, as well as her own. "I'll be back by morning to give Marco the money." She lowered her voice in conspiracy and tightened her grasp, hoping to reassure the boy with her contact. "Then you and I will be on our own again, baby, the way it should have been all along." Sighing acutely, Callie rose and swung the bag onto her shoulders, kissing Jude on the forehand when she was ready. "I love you," the teen whispered. Then she was gone.

She tried not to count the fears that pranced like mad sheep in her head, concentrating instead on the lights of her town, fading into the distance. She watched the sun sink towards the horizon through the tinted windows of the public transport, scanning the evolving landscape until the familiar building loomed into view. Yanking the chain and moving to the nearest exit, she couldn't help but recall the first time that she had come here. It didn't seem right that the brick was unscathed, that the neon bulbs still blinked. So much had changed for Callie.

_Marco reached for Callie's hand as they descended the steps of the bus, held it as they crossed the quiet street towards the pharmacy, Jude sprinting ahead and giggling._

"_You're a rotten egg! You're BOTH rotten eggs!" The nine year-old taunted his sister and her new friend cheerfully upon reaching the sidewalk, overjoyed by the day's excursion. It wasn't that Callie usually left him out; in fact, the opposite was true. Simply avoiding their foster parents' home was cause for mutual celebration, but Jude hadn't left San Ysidro since they entered the system as wards of the state, and it had been three long years since they lost their mother, since their father went to prison for her murder. _

_They had been shuffled from house to house since then, from one form of abuse to another, but Callie had always shielded the boy, and Jude learned early on to place all of his faith in her guidance. She was thirteen now, and ever since she met Marco, living on their own was all that Callie could talk about. She lulled him to sleep at night with her stories, weaving their future with her words, painting a picture of her dreams until he was drowsy with the possibilities._

"_He loves me," she whispered into the darkness one night, and the glow of her eyes had eclipsed the moon. The next morning they were gone. A report had been written, but no one ever began searching, and just like that the siblings had vanished._

Callie tried to shake the recollection as she approached, attempted to cope with the task at hand. _Was she being as naïve as she was on that first trip, when Marco had suddenly developed a cough and purchased medicine in bulk, only to recover the moment they returned to the streets? What did she think that he was doing? What lies had she fed herself? Even then, she should have known better._

She focused on the erratic thud of her heart, the hot adrenaline that throbbed in her ears and behind her eyes.

_This wasn't then. It was now. _

Callie slunk around the rear of the building, cloaked by the cover of shadows.

_She was older, wiser. _

Crouching quickly, she snuck a hand into her bag, fingered the cold metal of her resolve. Marco had slipped it to her in passing the night before, and an explanation had not been required.

_There was no hope left to lose anymore. _

She fumbled with the mask, gliding it over her cap of messy curls.

_Did that make her better off?_

Leaving her bag on the wet grass, she stole around the bend to the entrance. Swallowing what remained of her morals in one last, shaky breath, Callie kicked the glass door open and stepped inside. She raised her arm with a confidence that she did not possess.

"THIS IS A ROBBERY." Marco's words came rushing back to Callie now, tumbled off of her own tongue with no premeditation. "GET DOWN ON THE GROUND, ALL OF YOU, RIGHT NOW, OR I WILL BLOW YOUR FUCKING BRAINS OUT."

**A/N: Thank you again to those of you who have been reading and reviewing; your feedback means the world to me! Callie and Stef will meet in the next chapter... but how? :) **


	7. Chapter 7

_This was not one of Marco's stories. _

Callie wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, to tap her heels together and find herself seated at the scarred kitchen table once more, giggling at Joe's dramatic reenactment and drinking in the sound of Marco's unruffled narration in the aftermath of one of their exploits. She longed for the predictable laughter, for the giddy cheer that blanketed the air around her; she was safe and her own hands were clean, even if her shelter was an offspring of their violence. There is no place like home.

_Except her home hadn't ever been truly safe, had it?_

Instead of being comforted by the security of her illusions, Callie found herself sweating in the heat of her current reality, trying hard not to cry. _Nothing was going like it was supposed to have gone. None of this should be happening._

She didn't know how much time had passed, but at least she was alone now. Her treasure was bundled neatly beside her on the pharmacy floor, a bag full of cash and Sudafed; it was everything that she promised Marco and more.

She had dismissed the few, stunned costumers the moment that the cops arrived, watched them stagger away as her world went up in hazy bursts of red and blue. It had never been about them. _It had always been about Jude, yet all that she had given him was tragedy, served like her head on a platter. _

She might as well be in prison. There was no escaping the frenzied flashes enclosing her, no avoiding the tone in the loudspeaker now.

"**Ma'am. We have you surrounded. You did the right thing, letting everyone go. I need you to stay calm now. Put the weapon down and proceed to the door with your hands in the air."**

When no stir from within was detected, the man resumed. **"Young lady, I want to help you. It seems to me that you could use a little help right now. This can be easy, or it can be difficult—that's up to you."** He paused long enough for the girl to attempt a response, but only the wind whispered. Running a calloused palm through his cropped hair with agitation, the detective contemplated how far he was willing to push his luck in this case. The teen didn't appear excessively dangerous, considering how quickly she had released the potential hostages and how instinctively she had cowered when he raised the microphone. _Then again, how cute and cuddly could a girl with a loaded gun be? Is she safe to approach? _He watched her through the windows, night giving his eyes the advantage. She was still slumped against the counter under the florescent lights, her fingers curled tightly around the revolver and her eyes fixed blankly on the marble tiles beneath her feet. He decided to alter his tactic.

"**Listen, there's gotta be some paper in there, behind the counter. I need you to write down your name, maybe your phone number or address. I'm sure that there's someone who's looking for you. Let me call your parents." **The girl's head snapped up at the words, but the cop couldn't read her expression. It was progress at last, so he persisted, treading carefully. **"You can slide it under the door. I'll have someone get it, but they won't come in, OK? You just need to put down the gun and slide the paper under the door."**

Time seemed frozen for Callie, although she could hear the man on the amplifier continue to issue assurances, to persuade her to betray her identity or to kindly step from one form of captivity to another. _Wasn't that all that her life had become, really, since her mother died? The foster system and Marco and now this—wasn't it just a series of connected cells, a penitentiary of wasted years and mislaid ambitions? _

_How absolutely fitting that this outsider believes her mother can save her now, thinks that there might be anything left to save. What self could she possibly claim: Stray? Drug dealer? Gangster? Sister? Who or what was Callie Jacob other than a void of black, soul-sucking misery? She should wear a sign: "Beware the Wretched."_

While her mind proceeded to reel and her future unraveled, Callie fumbled in her back pocket with one hand, unearthing a small folded paper from the recess. A seed was planted, the idea sprouting in her mind and briefly blossoming. _Maybe she could be Stephanie Adams-Foster. The woman must possess what the police assume Callie does: a family who loves her, someone who would investigate if she went missing. Stephanie must have hope in her life, whereas Callie had none but to trust this theory and become her. Stranger things had happened. At the very least, she would be buying some time—time that Jude would need once he realized that she was not coming home, once he understood that Plan B was in motion. _

The teen slunk forward and then straightened quickly, sliding to the door and back again before she could analyze the decision. She felt suddenly and peculiarly empty, as if the paper had been an anchor that Callie wasn't aware she was weighted to; now she was floating frantically. The waves of blinking beams and the music of muffled sirens overturned her senses and tossed her stomach queasily. _There was nothing left to do but wait. _

And it didn't take long for the police to register her movements, for the detective to dispatch a man and retrieve her message. When it finally reached him, confusion snatched his voice and furrowed his brow. A similar expression was etched on the features of his colleagues. _What the hell?_

Almost thirty minutes passed before Stef arrived on the scene, having been roused out of sleep by the report of her impersonation. She had pulled on her jeans and fastened her bra under the pajama shirt in haste, throwing on tennis shoes before grabbing her badge and gun. Lena had protested, leaning anxiously out of the covers and encircling her wife's wrist with solemnity; the guilt that had coursed through Stef at the contact was almost enough to convince her to crawl back.

She tugged at the bulletproof vest now, brushing off the helpful hands of her coworkers and nodding at the lead detective's instruction. It wasn't until she pushed the door open and stepped inside that she recognized the brown eyes behind the gun. The weapon was aimed at her chest, but the fist that seized it was shaking, and the adolescent-perp was crouching, knees drawn up to her chin. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but her stare was unabashedly unwavering; the look at once beheld both an unsettling fear and an insolent hostility.

The air flew from Stef's lungs in one fell swoop, and her heart softly fluttered; the two women frowned at one another in wonder. _It was Lena who believed in fate, not her. She had lost her faith long ago._

"Who are you? Why did you come in here?" Callie demanded, interrupting the elder's thoughts.

Stef began to lower her right arm gently, "I'd like to reach for my ID, to show you who I am. Can I do that, please?" Her speech was sweet, steady and collected, and Callie felt a sense of peacefulness wash over her at the sound of it.

She nodded agreeably and relaxed her grip on the aluminum handle, resting her elbow on her knee but sustaining a sharp focus on her target.

Stef pulled her badge out of her pocket and bent down on the ground, sliding the leather across the short distance between her and Callie; she raised her limbs again, facing her palms towards the ceiling. She cautiously scrutinized the girl, watched as she flipped the cover open to reveal a name.

_Stephanie Adams-Foster, San Diego PD. _

The badge sparkled on the granite like it was made of diamonds, tiny gems that shattered Callie's heart and cut into the glass of her soul.

Before she could repress the gesture, her free hand flew to her mouth and she was gagging, sputtering for air.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. She impersonated a police officer? This was the woman that was supposed to help her? Oh God, what had she done? Maybe the man had been right—only her mother could save her now._

"I'm sorry," the teen finally choked, releasing her eyes from the piercing blue gaze that arrested them. "I didn't mean to involve you."

_She has people who love her. She has something that you will never have. _Briefly, Callie imagined barefooted children racing to greet their mother; she saw family dinners and pick-up basketball games and bonfires on the beach. _Like the patrons before her, this woman had a life that Callie couldn't bear to dismantle just because her own was in shambles. She could not, would not, be responsible for another orphaned child. _

Dizziness passed over the teen like a panic attack. _Were the lights flickering, or was that only her imagination?_

Before she could change her mind or lose her nerve, Callie turned the gun slowly in her hands. When she felt the barrel tip, cold against her temple, she closed her eyes and hissed, "Please find Jude, before it's too late. Tell him that I'm sorry too."

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay. I had major writers block, and life has been super busy. I tried to make it longer to make up for my procrastination, and I sincerely hope that I haven't lost any readers. I am also not a policewoman, so I'm not sure how accurate my descriptions are... Overall, I'm not feeling super confident about this chapter, so feedback would be MUCH appreciated! Also, don't worry, this is not a deathfic :) Thank you all for sticking with me! **


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